First Minus Tide of the cycle at 6:12 AM of -0.3 feet. No Herbs today. Sewing at 3pm.
I don’t know if it rained this morning, a little or the mist was just that thick, but the grass and sitting surfaces were wet. Not soggy, mind, just wet….. 63F feels so much nice that what it’s been, and just a little breeze to go with it. The clouds are clamped tightly to the hills and the bay and beaches have a fine mist for about 10 feet up. The humidity is 88%….
Yesterday was long. Both Tempus and I were tired and he tried to go without a nap, so of course he crashed in the late afternoon. I spent the day checking in stock and getting it out for sale. We got all the bottles! We’ve got the rack filled back up again. More of the incense got set out and I pulled some herbs for tomorrow’s workshop…and then Courtney came in and she’s not going to be able to make it for the Herbs Workshop, so I’m going to call it off for one day.
I did my usual harvesting, getting my feet soaked in the process, but got my last blueberry and a couple of early huckleberries!
…and I just realized that I left my computer glasses at the apartment. Oi….
Today’s Feast is Waffle Day. An actual “feast” for once? Did you know that they go back to the Middle Ages and derive from communion wafers? I had no idea! Waffles, as we know them, go back to the early 1500’s, and there is a bewildering variety. I also didn’t know that Belgian waffles are not from Belgium. They were invented at a World’s Fair in the US and were called “Bel-Gem” waffles! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waffle
Today’s plant is Evergreen huckleberry, Vaccinium ovatum, a small shrub that is native to the PNW. The berries were a staple food for the PNW indigines. The fruit is blue-black and tends to be small, but makes excellent jam and the leaves are smoked or made into tea for colds. Gender, Feminine – Planet, Venus – Element, Water – Carry for luck and health. This is a plant that will keep away evil and break hexes. Burn the leaves to bring visions and
to make dreams come true.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evergreen_Huckleberry
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Love & Light,
Today’s Astro & Calendar
Waxing Moon Magick – The waxing moon is for constructive magick, such as love, wealth, success, courage, friendship, luck or healthy, protection, divination. Any working that needs extra power, such as help finding a new job or healings for serious conditions, can be done now. Also, love, knowledge, legal undertakings, money and dreams. Phase ends at the Tide Change on 8/7 at 11:11am. Waxing Gibbous Moon – From seven to fourteen days after the new moon. For spells that need concentrated work over a ¼ moon cycle this is the best time for constructive workings. Aim to do the last working on the day of the Full moon, before the turn. Keywords for the Gibbous phase are: analyze, prepare, trust. It is the time in a cycle to process the results of the actions taken during the First Quarter. During this phase you are gathering information. Give up making judgments; it will only lead to worry. Your knowledge is incomplete. Laugh. Analyze and filter. LOOK WITHIN. God/dess aspect: Maiden/Youth, but in the uncommitted phase, the Warriors – Associated God/desses: Dion, Dionysius, Venus, Thor. Phase ends at the Full on 8/5 at 11:11pm.
. . . but by week’s end Venus has entered the feet of Gemini, and the triangle it forms with Aldebaran and Betelgeuse has morphed quite a bit. Venus is holding almost steady with respect to your dawn landscape, while the background stars slide to the upper right from morning to morning.
The Moon shines low in the southeast as the stars come out. How early can you spot Altair, three fists at arm’s length to the Moon’s upper left? How about brighter Vega, nearing the zenith from the east?
Mercury is buried deep in the glow of sunset.
Goddess Month of Kerea runs from 7/11 – 8/8
Celtic Tree Month of Coll/Hazel, Aug 5 – Sep 1
Runic half-month of Thurisaz/ Thorn/Thunor, 7/29-8/12 – Northern Tradition honors the god known to the Anglo-Saxons as Thunor and to the Norse as Thor. The time of Thorn is one of ascendant powers and orderliness. This day also honors the sainted Norwegian king, Olaf, slain around Lammas Day. Its traditional calendar symbol is an axe.
©2017 M. Bartlett, Some parts separately copyright
Celtic Tree Month of Coll/Hazel, Aug 5 – Sep 1, Coll (CULL), hazel – The hazel (Corylus avellana L) is the source of hazelnuts. It forms a shrub up to 6 m (20 feet) tall, inhabiting open woodlands and scrubs, hedgerows, and the edges of forests. The filbert nut in North American groceries is Corylus maxima, a related species. The European hazelnut is cultivated in North America, primarily as an ornamental. Hazelnuts are in the Birch family (Betulaceae).
Coll – Hazel Ogam letter correspondences
Letter: C, K
Meaning: Creative energies for work or projects.
Tides for Alsea Bay
Day High Tide Height Sunrise Moon Time % Moon
~ /Low Time Feet Sunset Visible
Sa 5 Low 6:12 AM -0.3 6:08 AM Set 4:12 AM 91
~ 5 High 12:40 PM 5.9 8:36 PM Rise 7:20 PM
~ 5 Low 6:00 PM 2.6
~ 5 High 11:48 PM 7.5
Affirmation/Thought for the Day – When spiders weave their webs by Noon, fine weather is coming soon
~ Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them. – Dalai Lama
~ People love others not for who they are but for how they make them feel. – Irwin Federman
~ Power doesn’t need to be about conquest of others; it needs to be about conquest of self. – Kerr Cuhulain
~ Prosperity comes from being industrious. – Kerr Cuhulain
All Nature helps to swell the song
And chant the same refrain;
July and June have slipped away
And August’s here again. –Helen Maria Winslow (1851–1938)
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea. –e.e. cummings
The surf crashed against the shore, tumbling haphazardly over itself in its haste to steal a kiss from the sand. Overhead, the Full Moon’s radiance smudged the stars from the sky. The air had that salt-fish-sweatsocks smell that I remembered from childhood outings to this same beach, the Saturdays when my family would have an unofficial contest to see who could turn the most fetching shade of beet red.
A half-dozen women in various stages of undress formed a ragged circle in the water, drenched to the hips, hands joined. They swayed back and forth between the dual rhythms of drum and surf. Some were topless, the moonlight softening the outline of breast and hip. One woman wore a lovely crinkled cotton shift, having apparently forgotten that it would be see-through when wet, showing off her metallic magenta underwear.
“Ancient Mother, I hear you calling
Ancient Mother, I hear your song…”
Somehow a chorus of untrained, unremarkable voices blended into an ethereal harmony. Several yards inland the drummer, a woman decked in about four pounds of pendants and a beatific smile, was lost in the pattern her hands wove on the instrument.
The chant soared higher into the sky, gaining momentum, rising above waves and sand and Moon into the heart of Creation. At that precise moment, poised between worlds and in a time that was not time, I had the strangest urge to yell, “SHARK!”
Nothing like a little sarcasm to kill a mystical mood.
Thankfully I kept my mouth shut, but the damage was done. Suddenly the ritual-induced euphoria vanished, leaving me shivering and soaked to the skin, wondering what on Earth I was doing in a sarong on a beach in the middle of the night dancing with a bunch of half-naked crazy Witches. My Mom would have a stroke.
Fortunately the rest of the ritual went off without a hitch. The chant peaked, and the women sent the energy they’d raised into the ocean, giving it a little extra strength and protection from the vagaries of humankind. I dragged my focus back into the Circle. Lissa, acting priestess for the rite, bid farewell to the Great Mother and the Elements, and we sloshed back up the shore to dry out around the bonfire and tuck into a cooler full of sandwiches and Kool-Aid (Kaitlyn, who packed the post-ritual munchies, is the mother of six-year-old twins, so the crusts were cut off and there were lots of napkins).
Lissa passed the thermos with a “May you never thirst,” and I settled into the hollow my rear had worn into the sand. There was the usual chatter of an extended family: dates and mortgages, spells cast and recipes found, an ongoing debate between Wiccan purists and fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer over whether or not Willow was a bad influence on teenage Witchlets.
Sitting on the edge of the circle, I felt a little let down-by myself, mostly, but just a little by the sea. Surely I could have kept my cynicism out of the way; after nearly a decade at this I ought to be better at caging my Monkey Mind. The night was perfect, the ritual perfect, and everyone around me was practically glowing. I felt like the only person in the room who doesn’t know the answer to Final Jeopardy!. To top it all off I had one of those “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to ground?” headaches.
I was especially disappointed because I’ve always had such a strong connection to the sea. When I was a child, before I’d ever set foot on a beach, I had long restful dreams of waves breaking over rocks, of the call of seagulls. Some of my most profound spiritual experiences have come to me while I floated on my back watching the night sky. I collected water from every beach I ever went to, adding them to a special jar on my altar. There were seashells all over my apartment. People used to tell me my eyes were the color of the Gulf of Mexico–they stopped, of course, as the Gulf changed from grey-blue to dirty brown thanks to the wonders of American industry.
I spent the night after my high school graduation on a beach, a little ways away from my friends, sitting in a Circle drawn in the wet sand with a finger. The whole universe had poured down into my body, sending my chakras into orbit. That night had been much like this one, so what did I do wrong this time?
Conversation ebbed and flowed around the group, and I let my attention drift back toward the water. I let the endless stream of memories move past my mind’s eye, thinking of all the times I’d come home and washed sand out of my drawers, and of the time I got stung by a jellyfish, and the dozen times since high school I’d ditched work to drive down to the beach, jump out of my car, and run screaming toward the water like a blue-painted Braveheart extra. I also remembered watching a storm roll in, tongues of twisted lightning flicking against the horizon, black clouds like the hand of a god stretching out to pluck the Moon from the sky.
I leaned back a bit, the sand cupping me, reminding me of being young and holding a baby turtle in my hands. I relaxed conscious hold on the edges of my mind, eroding cell by cell into the ever-turning tide. Wave after wave washed me farther out to sea.
The ocean is never the same twice. Water that formed one wave will explode into a thousand others, taking different paths to distant shores. As I drifted, I felt myself dissolving, carried away, separated into a million parts that were all part of one.
Drops of me landed on the sands of Maui; I flew off the tail of a dolphin jumping for joy alongside the prow of an aircraft carrier. I soaked into the shorts of a toddler who ran away from her mother, laughing hysterically, feet splashing in my warmth before she fell down on her rump. I yielded up the trash that humans had tossed into me. I caught a message in a bottle. I evaporated into the heat of a summer afternoon only to come down again in a thundershower; I filled the lungs of a drowning man.
I roared with elemental rage, towering over a sailboat, spilling onto the deck; I held the continents within the circle of my arms; I glimmered in the sunlight, shone in the moonlight, danced with the wind, and churned under a sea turtle’s feet. I nibbled away at the wreck of the Titanic, then flowed halfway around the world to knock the surfboard out from under a boy who thought he could tame me. I was Arctic blue, tropical green, foaming white, stormy silver.
Finally, finally, I joined into a wave that bore down on a secluded little beach, reaching up beyond the boundaries of the tide to smack full force into a circle of unsuspecting women with purple Kool-Aid moustaches, one of whom knew I was coming and opened my eyes, laughing, sand between my toes.
The fire went out with a spectacular smoking hiss. Tamra yelped and leaped backward to protect her drum from the onslaught. Women squealed, giggled, cursed, and eventually schlepped their gear farther up the shore where maybe, just maybe, Mother wouldn’t join in so theatrically.
I stayed where I was, smiling out at the ocean. “Okay,” I said. “I’m listening.”
Silliness – Horse or Chicken?
A retiring farmer in preparation for selling his land, needed to rid his farm of animals. So he went to every house in his town.
To the houses where the man is the boss, he gave a horse. To the houses where the woman is the boss, a chicken was given.
He got toward the end of the street and saw a couple outside gardening. “Who’s the boss around here?” he asked.
“I am.” said the man.
“I have a black horse and a brown horse,” the farmer said, “which one would you like?”
The man thought for a minute and said, “The black one.”
“No, no, no, get the brown one.” the man’s wife said.
“Here’s your chicken.” said the farmer.